


Friends and Enemies

by erebones



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Crack Pairings, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Scanran front, Neal makes an unexpected conquest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Edge of Glory

A gasp.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to keep your opinions to yourself, would you?”

The younger knight grinned cheerfully, despite the lightning-sharp awareness that crackled through him. “Of course not, milord. My opinions are so enlightening that I feel pressed at every moment to share them with the world. _Oh gods,_ don’t stop!”

A snort. “Does it look like I intend to?”

A serviceable brown tunic pooled on the ground at their feet, followed quickly by a white shirt.

“You’re certainly quite attractive in spite of your advanced age,” he panted, fingers fumbling with his own clothing. Older, scarred hands assisted him out of his own tunic and pushed him back against the mattress.

“Have a thing for older men, do you, Queenscove?” the other man drawled. “For shame.”

Neal pulled Wyldon’s head down for a punishing kiss. “You’re one to talk, you old lecher… _ahhh_ …”

“One more word about how old I am, and I’ll show you just how old I’m _not_.”

“Is that an invitation?” His voice sounded unusually breathy in his own ears, and Neal’s slanted green eyes slid closed as experienced hands made short work of the buttons on his trousers.

“It’s a threat, actually. Now will you give your wagging tongue a rest and put it to better use?”

Making use of his limber flexibility, Neal rolled so that he straddled the older man’s waist; bending down, he drew said tongue along the hard muscles of Wyldon’s stomach. “With pleasure.”


	2. Born This Way

Her grin is bordering on playful as she looks at him from across the desk. “Milord, do you ever still wish I’d been born a boy?”

The question catches him off-guard, and he looks up at her with open confusion. If she’d asked him a week ago, he would have said _no, of course not. You are who you are, Keladry, and I wouldn’t change it for the world._ A week ago, he hadn’t slept with her best friend, effectively shredding his marriage vows and bringing the realization that he’d never found women all that attractive in one fell swoop. The taste of Nealan of Queenscove still lingers on his tongue, the feel of him still on his hands and mouth. The thought of just what, exactly, he’d been doing last night makes him simultaneously cringe and burn, wondering what antics the boy would find to get up to next time.

So he stares at her blankly, and realizes that the answer is yes. Does it make him a terrible man, wondering what Mindelan would look like as a boy? Still that full mouth, still those sparkling hazel eyes, still those sinful lashes that might captivate a lesser man… But instead of curves, hard planes, and a fierce, male spirit to war with and succumb to his own.

Wyldon swallows, and manages a slight shake of his head. “Mindelan, you are you are. I wouldn’t change it for the world.” A pleased smile appears, and their attention returns to the reports at hand. But something lingers, tugging at him. He _does_ wish she had been born a boy. He wishes it with all his heart.

But he will not be telling Queenscove that anytime soon.


	3. How to Save a Life

“If you die, my lord, Kel will never forgive me.”

Wyldon barks a laugh, and blood spatters across Nealan’s tunic front. “We certainly don’t want that, do we?”

The healer spares him a glare, eyes burning in his pale face. He’s used too much Gift today. “Please don’t talk, my lord. It’s not doing you any good, and I need to concentrate.”

Wyldon’s eyes fall shut, and he tries to push the pain aside. The only thing he can feel besides the arrows that pepper his body are those cool, deft hands that flit from his brow to his chest to his shoulder, seeking the places where fire threatens to consume him.

“I know what you did,” Nealan says, breaking his own rule as he works feverishly. “I would be dead if you hadn’t thrown me from my horse. These arrows would have been in _my_ chest.”

Wyldon’s eyes flicker open, watching the young healer as he works. “If I had let you die, Queenscove, Keladry would never forgive me.”

The boy’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “At least we both have our heads screwed on straight.”

It takes a moment, through the haze, for him to comprehend what Nealan is saying. “I’d be a fool –” He stops to cough, and this time the blood leaves a gruesome sprinkle across the young man’s face. “I’d be a fool if I let those arrows take you, boy. You’re a fine knight and a bloody good healer. In the prime of life. They need you more than they need me.” Blackness threatens to swallow him as Nealan cuts his tunic away from the arrows  and presses cool fingers to the bloody flesh where the shafts have sunken deep. “Besides,” he whispers, too far gone to care that he’s joking with a man who despises him, “your father would hunt me down and kill me if Keladry didn’t beat him to it.”

Nealan doesn’t reply, but thrusts a leather gauntlet at him. “Bite this.” It’s dirty and coated in blood, but Wyldon obeys. The boy doesn’t have enough magic to take away the pain, so he’ll just have to bite down and fight it like he always has.

It hurts more than getting shot. Scanrans are clever with their arrows, if nothing else. Small barbs angled backwards from the tips tear at his flesh as Nealan draws them out slowly. Three arrows, one in his good shoulder and two in his chest. Wyldon’s teeth nearly bite through the leather as he fights the urge to scream, his entire body shuddering in an effort to keep still.

“They’re not poisoned, my lord,” the boy announces in a poor semblance of good cheer as he inspects the arrowheads. “Just hold still. I can’t finish the job now, but I can keep you from seeing the Black God for a little while yet.”

Those cool hands move over the fire, banking it, coaxing it down to coals that burn with a steady inner light instead of leaping in flames that rip at his body from the inside. For the first time in what feels like a long time, Wyldon gasps for breath. The air is foul, tainted with death and smoke, but it refreshes him all the same.

The boy, looking vaguely gray, moves away and tries to stand. But his legs betray him, and he collapses onto the forest floor at his district commander’s side. Wyldon grabs his hand as the fool boy makes another attempt.

“Sleep,” he orders, meaning to sound fierce; but it comes out sounding more like it belongs to a dear friend. “You’ve done what you can do.”

Queenscove opens his mouth to protest, but his body makes the decision for him. His green eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against a bone-white cheek, and the grooves of worry and strain in his forehead become smooth. Wyldon sighs, feeling slumber approach, and gives in the darkness without a struggle.

He falls asleep still holding Neal’s hand.


	4. Fireflies

“They do things differently in Yaman.” Neal frowns, though whether from concentration or disagreement with his fiancée’s customs Wyldon isn’t sure. The battle was weeks ago, but the healer has barely left his district commander’s side. A raging fever had set in not long after Wyldon and his rescuer had been brought to the New Hope infirmary, and it had been a long, hard fight.

“How do you mean?” he asks, genuinely curious. An unusual relationship has sprung up between them these past weeks, and during lulls in Nealan’s duties, they have taken to sitting together in Wyldon’s temporary rooms. Sometimes they play chess, or cards, though Wyldon has learned that he will nearly always lose at the latter. Other times, like today, they simply talk while Neal performs his customary examination of his patient.

“Romantically,” Neal says, and is quiet again. His brows are furrowed in that way he has whenever he is using his Gift. Already, barely twenty years old, the boy has worry lines to match his father’s. Wyldon can feel the cool touch of magic in his body, but for once he doesn’t fight it. “I mean, there are things that are more socially acceptable them that we would think preposterous,” Neal continues as though he hadn’t paused.

“Such as?”

Neal chuckles, not taking his eyes off the task at hand. “You don’t have to use that dry tone with me, milord. Just a moment – what’s this?” He raises a disapproving eyebrow, and Wyldon is alarmed at the inkling of embarrassment that uncurls within his belly.

“It itches,” he mutters, avoiding the young man’s stern gaze.

“That could signify an infection, Wyldon. You have to tell me these things,” Neal says, exasperated and not concealing it very well. If there’s one fault he has – and he has many, Wyldon thinks – it’s that he shows his emotions far too easily.

“Very well. Next time I will,” Wyldon tells him equably. Neal sends him a look of disbelief, but traces the red lines that score Wyldon’s chest with a chilly finger. Another trickle of alarm prickles the hair on the back of his neck at a very satisfied, very unwarranted thought sighs, _Mithros, that feels good._

“I mean, speaking of romance,” Neal says, and Wyldon scrambles to remember what they were talking about before.

“Yes?”

“They’re much more open to the idea of same-gender couples.” His voice is detached, as though he’s carrying on the conversation with only half of his awareness. This idea is reinforced when Neal bends down to inspect his shoulder more carefully, and sends a tendril of green fire into the skin to soothe the irritated tissues. “And not only that,” he continues, “but multiple partners. I mean, the nobility often have more than one wife, or even take male lovers.”

Wyldon suppresses a sigh. “Most interesting, I’m sure. What is your point? Have an itch to see what sleeping with a man is like?”

Neal snorts. “I’m sure.”

 _Well that’s a vague reply if ever I’ve heard one_ , Wyldon thinks. Then, disregarding the voice of reason, he says, “If you want my advice, avoid sleeping with someone you know. It makes things incredibly awkward later.”

Those green eyes widen slightly in surprise, and suddenly the healer is paying complete attention. “You know this from personal experience, I suppose,” he offers, deceptively mild.

Wyldon, thinking of Raoul, blinks once and nods.

“ _Oh_.”

He allows a crooked smile to surface. “I am devoted to my wife, Nealan, as I suspect you are to yours. However, she _is_ Tusinian, and they have the same sort of tolerance that the Yamanis do for… experimentation.”

Neal swallows, throat bobbing tellingly, and returns his attention to the examination. “Well, milord, you’re coming along nicely. The stitches should be ready to come out in a few days. Just tell me if the scar tissue itches, and I can fix it for you.” He stoops to gather a small stone jar from his healer’s kit, and sets it on the bedside table as Wyldon sits up slowly and reaches for his shirt. “Rub this in before you go to bed or after you bathe – it will help prevent infection. None of your martyr’s ways, understand? If I find out you’re not using this, Mithros help me I’ll –”

Wyldon chuckles, and bats Neal’s twitching finger away. “Relax, Queenscove. When a healer gives specific orders, I follow them.”

His mouth twists to one side. “Just checking. You have a terribly stoic outlook on wounds, my lord.” Is it just him, or is Neal’s voice a little huskier than normal?

“Pain builds character,” Wyldon replies, raising his eyebrows. He swings his legs off the bed, pressing experimentally at the three healing wounds. “I’ll admit I could do without chest pains, however, especially in the winter.”

“Your heart is healthy as a horse’s, thankfully,” Neal observes. “I don’t know what your chances would’ve been if it wasn’t.”

Wyldon purses his lips thoughtfully. “Then I suppose I’m doubly lucky. You ran a terrible risk, drying yourself up like that.”

“It had to be done,” Neal answers, shrugging. “Need a hand up, my lord?”

“Certainly not,” he scowls, earning laughter from the young man. The sound lightens his heart, somehow, and he gets to his feet without strain.

“So you’re advising a stranger,” he says suddenly, mirth fading.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You suggest sleeping with a stranger,” Neal clarifies, solemn once again.

Wyldon’s eyes fall to the shirt he holds, and he sighs. “It’s your choice, Nealan. It depends on what you’re looking for. It’s easy to claim no strings attached, but what happens when your heart gets involved?”

Neal hesitates, but weeks of growing friendship encourage him to speak. “You fell in love with someone, didn’t you.”

“If it wasn’t love, it was something very like it.” Wyldon meets his eyes squarely, wanting desperately to impress this on the young man’s impressionable mind. “We were both fairly young, and more than fairly foolish. I was restless in my arranged marriage, and he was struggling with alcoholism. It was not the most logical relationship, but neither of us were much for thinking logically at the time. We just wanted an escape.”

Neal chews his bottom lip. “Lord Raoul?”

Wyldon snorts quietly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry it… didn’t work.”

He shrugs, barely feeling the pull of scar tissue in his chest. “As I said, it wasn’t logical. I grew to care for Vivienne, and he grew apart from alcohol – and from me. A natural part of growing into our manhood, our places in the Realm.” In an unexpected gesture of affection, Wyldon reaches up and smooths the furrows in Neal’s brow. “You’re a dear friend, Nealan, and I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later.”

“Do you regret your time with Lord Raoul?” he asks, green eyes challenging.

“No,” Wyldon admits. He can think of nothing else to say, can think of no reason to pull away when Neal moves to kiss him. And so he doesn’t.


End file.
